Beyond Belief

BEYOND BELIEF

“Have you booked my birthday bash yet?” I ask Ray before setting off to work.

         “No, I’ll do it now. How many people?”

         “Twelve, including us; I hope they have a table left.”

         “Have you invited our Sylvia?”

         “Oh God, do I have to? You know what she’s like. Can’t I enjoy one social occasion without her?”

         “Aw, don’t be like that, Val. She means well.”

         “That’s a matter of opinion. I suppose I’ll never hear the last of it if she doesn’t come. Probably put a curse on me. Make it thirteen then.”

         Ray’s expression alters immediately. I let out an exasperated sigh. “What now?”

         “Well, you know what Sylvia would say about that. Thirteen people sit down at a table and one will die before the year is out.”

         “See, this is just what I mean. Everything has to revolve around her and her stupid ideas. Okay, I’ll ask Jill from work to join us; anything for a quiet life. Make it fourteen. Got to run, see you later.”

         Dashing out the front door I almost trip over the cat basking in the morning sunshine. “Shift, damned useless article. You’ll be the death of somebody one day.” It gives me a withering glare and saunters away. I hate cats.

         Driving to work I feel familiar resentment bubbling like hot lava. To describe Sylvia as superstitious is a gross understatement. Her whole existence is based on legends, rituals and old wives' tales. To make matters worse she continually inflicts her opinions and idiotic beliefs on all my family and friends. Sylvia is Ray’s older sister; unmarried of course. She tells people she’s still waiting for the right man to come along. According to her he will walk towards her on a Thursday, wearing a green tie, but only after she has spotted ten blue cars followed by a red-haired girl wearing purple. I suspect she may have a long wait and heaven help any poor man who ends up with her.

         'Weird' is hardly an apt adjective for Sylvia, and I have no time for her and her bizarre views. Unfortunately, the rest of her family, including Ray, hold her in awe. They claim she’s gifted, something to do with her being born on Friday the thirteenth during a thunderstorm or some such rubbish. Load of old poppycock in my opinion but I try and keep it to myself for Ray’s sake, although the way they treat her with kid gloves really irritates me. I could tolerate it if it was just the average apple-a-day, four-leafed-clover, not-walking-under-ladders or opening-umbrellas-in-the-house type of stuff but Sylvia’s beliefs go much further than that and venture way into the realms of the ridiculous. Even the revolting rabbit’s foot she refuses to be parted from for fear of ill luck had to come from the left hind leg of a rabbit killed during a full moon by a cross-eyed person. Sylvia tells us this is exceedingly lucky although thankfully, as yet, she’s spared us the details of how she acquired it.


At seven o' clock that evening thirteen of us sit around the restaurant table awaiting the arrival of Sylvia. She strolls in thirty minutes late.

         “Sorry to keep you waiting,” she apologises lamely. “I came out without my amber beads; can’t go anywhere without them, I feel unprotected. Of course when you return to your house to fetch something you have to sit down and count backwards from seven hundred to ward off evil spirits. Did you know that?”

         Once my polite guests have raised inquisitive eyebrows there is no stopping her. There follows a strained evening during which Sylvia instructs us we must always eat fish from head to tail, cut bread in even slices, not cross knives or drop cutlery for fear of various plagues and disasters. Even our natural bodily functions are dissected and analysed by Sylvia’s bottomless pit of trivial mumbo jumbo. My cousin accidentally bites her tongue during the main course and is immediately chastised by my dear sister-in-law, who proceeds to announce in a loud voice that this only happens if you have recently told a lie. Gina, my dearest friend, spills pepper on the table, which according to Sylvia symbolises an argument with your best mate. Cheers. The ensuing sneezing caused by the spilt pepper allows Sylvia to delight in informing us ‘Sneeze on a Friday, sneeze for sorrow.’ Our pregnant guest has her side salad deftly removed by Sylvia who tells us lettuce can induce an early labour. The bundle of joy known as Sylvia ensures that a good time is not had by all.

         I’m feeling so stressed by this stage my left eye begins to twitch, which of course does not go unnoticed by our resident clairvoyant.

         “You be careful, our Val. A twitch in the left eye foretells of a death in the family.” Fortunately for her, all sharp cutlery has been removed from the table.

         Doom and gloom settles on the guests like a heavy winter snowstorm and I can almost hear the collective sigh of relief when the waiter arrives with my birthday cake and the bill. Pent up energy and frustration allow me a plentiful enough supply of hot air with which to extinguish the thirty candles in one go.

         “Ooh Val, you’ve blown them all out. You can make a wish now.” Sylvia broadcasts. “But you mustn’t tell anyone what it is or it won’t come true.”

         “Oh, believe me, I wouldn’t dream of it,” I reply, praying Sylvia doesn’t come out with some anecdote about the fate of those who smile insincerely.

         The company departs rapidly and finally Sylvia leaves after reminding me not to fasten my coat up wrongly or I will receive a visit from an unwelcome guest. A little late I fear.

         The drive home is tense; my indignation at having my birthday ruined mingling in the cold night air with Ray’s protective instincts towards his sister. If Sylvia’s prophesies bear any truth then during our journey her ear must be about to ignite. Not her left one either. It’s been like this since the start; Sylvia in my mind is the only jinx on our marriage.


In the early days of our relationship I found Sylvia rather eccentric but mildly amusing. As time went by it became obvious she was to play a larger-than-average part in our future and I grew increasingly more agitated as our wedding day approached. I had planned on making my own wedding dress in a dreamy cream satin but Sylvia had soon put a stop to that.

         “Don’t you know it’s unlucky to make your own dress? And you must have heard the old rhyme ‘marry in white, you’ve chosen right.’” I had no doubt Ray was the perfect man for me but was beginning to wish his sister had been born into a different family, preferably in another dimension.

         A fortnight before the wedding Sylvia presented us with her gift - a black cat. For good luck she said. I hate cats. The following week I caught the thing eating Whiskas out of the left shoe belonging to the outrageously priced Gucci pair I had purchased for my big day. My scream brought Sylvia onto the scene where she explained it was a tradition to bring good luck to the prospective bride and groom. If it hadn’t been so pathetic it would have been funny. From then on there was nothing but conflict between us.

         I wanted a May wedding but that didn’t meet with Sylvia’s approval.

         “Marry in the month of May and you’ll surely rue the day. I’m only thinking of your happiness you know.”

         I’d have settled for a traditional Saturday later in the year but that didn’t suit Sylvia either.

         “You know what they say, Val. ‘Thursday for crosses, Friday for losses and Saturday for no luck at all.’ I just want the best for you.”

         I wasn’t even allowed my favourite red roses in the bouquet. According to folklore it’s bad luck, and Sylvia was having none of it.

         So, I walked down the aisle in my hired white dress and stained shoe, carrying a bunch of chrysanthemums on a cold wet Wednesday in November. Sylvia beamed proudly from the front row of the church looking far happier than I felt.

         “And don’t go dropping the wedding ring our Raymond,” she whispered as I stood nervously by his side. “Or the marriage will be doomed.” With Sylvia as my sister-in-law I was beginning to think there might be an element of truth in that.

         As we left the church she handed us a silver horseshoe. “Make sure you place it open end upwards or your luck will run out. Oh, and put it in your bedroom to ward off nightmares.” I resisted the temptation of telling her no nightmare could ever possibly compete with her.

         Before stepping into the car (right foot first as instructed by Sylvia) I tossed my wilting bouquet over my shoulder, making sure it was way out of reach of Sylvia. I was only thinking of that poor, unsuspecting young man in the green tie, honestly.

         The honeymoon was wonderful but returning to live with Ray’s family soon became unbearable and I eventually persuaded Ray we needed a place of our own. Of course, Sylvia ensured choosing a new home became as complicated as a mission to Mars. Every place we viewed had to be assessed for suitability by Sylvia. The house number had to be even, the front door had to open onto the street and the bedroom had to face east. Left to Sylvia every estate agent in the district would go bankrupt in a matter of weeks.

         Eventually, we secured a property to suit Sylvia’s requirements although our departure was delayed, as according to her ladyship, it’s unlucky to move in April. The house was old and in need of renovation but as long as it distanced us from Sylvia I didn’t care. Naturally, she had to assist on removal day.

         Leaving the men to do the heavy lifting inside I stepped out into the warm June sunshine and decided to tidy up a little outside.

         “Ray, where’s the dustpan and brush?” I shouted up the stairs.

         “Oh, I’ve got rid of that,” Sylvia’s voice drifted through the kitchen window. “Never take an old broom along when you move. Throw it out and buy a replacement. New brooms sweep clean you know.”

         Humphing, I decided to dig up the sprawling creeper attached to the side of the house. I hate Ivy.

         “What are you doing?” A distraught-faced Sylvia appeared at my side as if by magic. “You must keep the Ivy; it’ll protect the house from witchcraft and evil.” I made a mental note to visit the nearest garden centre and ask about plants to ward off unwanted relatives. I threw down my spade and decided to make tea for us all.

         “Well, I’m sure you’ll be very happy here,” Sylvia predicted, raising her cup of Earl Grey as she knocked three times on the wooden tea chest.

         I’m quite convinced Ray and I would have been perfectly content in our new home if Sylvia hadn’t been a constant thorn in the flesh.


A week after my birthday Sylvia pays one of her many uninvited and much too frequent visits to our home. It’s a bitterly cold day and snow has been falling for most of the afternoon.

         As she sips her elderflower tea and forces her latest theories and puerile notions upon us, the cat wanders into the lounge carrying a flapping bundle of feathers in its mouth.

         Sylvia gasps in horror. “Oh God, a dead bird in the house is a sign of an impending death. Get it outside quickly.”

         “Well, it’s that bloody cat you gave us that brought it in.” I release the bird, thankfully uninjured, into the winter sky and assist the cat, none too gently with my foot into the garden, cursing under my breath.

         “Aw, don’t be hard on him, Val. It’s freezing out there. You make sure he’s inside before you go to bed.”

         "Don't worry about that psychotic fur ball," I retort. "It would find its way back here from Land's End. It has a charmed life; nine in fact."

         Eventually Sylvia leaves us in peace. I flop down on the sofa with a sigh of relief, only to discover her disgusting rabbit’s foot lodged between the cushions.

         “Oh hell,” I shout to Ray in the kitchen. “Sylvia’s left her good luck charm. I’d better see if I can catch her, she’ll have a seizure if she discovers it’s missing.” Better to venture out in the cold than risk another visit from her tomorrow.

         I race out the front door. The temperature has dropped dramatically and the snowfall is now covered with a rock-hard, lethal blanket of ice. Looking down the street I see the cat dash out into the road, hear the screech as Sylvia slams on her brakes, then watch in open-mouthed horror as her car skids, and careers into a six-foot solid brick wall.

         Five days later, on a wet Friday afternoon I gaze into the deep hole that will be her resting place for eternity. Guilt weighs down on me as heavily as the sodden earth that will soon cover her coffin. Although my life will now be free of Sylvia I know I will never escape the feeling that somehow I am responsible for her premature demise. For people who, like me, scoff at superstition I have only one piece of advice. Just be careful what you wish for.